[Ener]

The House of Healing — Part 1: The Invitation


Heather sat at the kitchen island, turning the envelope over and over in her hands.

Cream-coloured parchment. Thick. Embossed in gold with a name that made her breath catch:

The House of Healing.

She knew what would be inside. Of course she did. She’d felt it coming.
And still, her fingers trembled as she slid a nail beneath the flap and eased it open.

Two cards slipped out onto the white marble—one folded around the other.

She picked up the larger one. Her lips moved as she read, softly, aloud—though the words felt carved into her already.

Dear Heather Langford,

Time has weighed heavily on the bond we once shared.
I feel it in the silence between our meetings, in the tension that sours our progress.

Rather than allow resentment to take root, I’ve reserved space for us within the House of Healing—a sanctuary devoted to restoring balance, not through words, but through presence.

Their Ritual of Reconciliation is designed to mend what’s frayed, by releasing what we’ve carried.

Let our bodies express what conversation cannot.
Let us sweat away bitterness.
Let us peel back pride, like fabric from skin.
Let us face one another—and leave lighter.

Our session is booked.
Use the enclosed card to RSVP.
After that, you need only arrive. The attendants will prepare us for the ritual.

With trust,
Marissa Moore

Heather’s lips curled into something between a smile and a sneer.
She picked up the smaller card.
Circled “I will attend.”
Put the pen down.
And whispered, “Of course I will.”


The two co-owners of the House of Healing arrived at the bathhouse entrance an hour before sunset, just as the ritual prescribed.

They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.

Their eyes met—Heather’s cool, calculating. Marissa’s calm, but tight at the edges. The air between them simmered, heavy with old wounds and unsaid things.

Two veiled attendants awaited them, bowing in silent welcome. One gestured to Marissa, the other to Heather. The women parted ways without a word, vanishing down opposite halls.


Marissa’s preparation room was quiet, fragrant, reverent.

Her attendant moved with slow, graceful hands, unfastening the espresso-skinned woman’s wrap and folding it neatly aside. A polished tray was offered—glass vials nestled on velvet.

Marissa scanned them briefly, then pointed to two.
Myrrh. Sandalwood.

A scent as deep and grounded as her principles.

The attendant bowed, gathering the chosen oils. She followed Marissa into the mist-drenched steam room and, with practiced care, began working the oils into her skin—shoulders, arms, chest, thighs—each movement deliberate, sacred.

Marissa sat tall on the bench, back straight, muscles unwinding under the warmth. She inhaled deeply, letting the scent anchor her.

Meanwhile, in Heather’s chamber, the rhythm was faster. Sharper.

Her robe was peeled away with clinical precision, revealing the soft swell of breast, hip, and thigh. Heather didn’t flinch. Her eyes were already on the oil tray.

She tapped three vials without hesitation.
Blood orange. Jasmine. Black pepper.

Bright. Bold. Irresistible. With a bite.

The attendant dipped her fingers into the blend and followed her into the steam. Heather sprawled on the bench, letting her robe fall halfway open as the slick warmth spread across her skin. Her eyes half-lidded, she breathed in the scent of herself—ripe and dangerous.

She didn’t relax. She coiled. Waiting.


Their thoughts ran parallel, but not aligned.

Marissa:
“This was sacred.”
“We built something holy. Not a product. Not a trend.”
“She wants to livestream it. Package it. Pollute it.”

Her fists clenched.

“She can’t take what she doesn’t earn.”
“She wants to scale? Let her feel what it costs.”

Heather:
“We were partners.”
“I handled the real work. The calls. The expansions. The money.”
“She lit incense and called it vision.”

Her lips curled.

“Fine. If it takes sweat and skin to end this stalemate—so be it.
I’ll leave her bruised, but employed.”

When the steam doors opened, the veiled attendants were waiting.

A robe was draped over each woman—thigh-length, cream-coloured silk, embossed in gold over the left breast:
House of Healing.

Bare feet on warm stone, they were led down separate halls to a shared destination.

The Ritual Chamber.

Black marble tiles gleamed under soft lamplight. Shelves held neatly rolled towels, vials of oil, and smouldering incense. At the centre, a knee-deep pool shimmered beneath rising mist. On the opposing side stood two heated white marble benches, opposite each other like altars.

The far wall: fogged glass, facing the gardens. Twilight filtered through, diffuse and reverent.

The door shut. Sealing them in.

One breath. Two.

And then—together—they shrugged off their robes.

Silk whispered to the floor.
Skin glistened with sacred oils.
And silence reigned.

To be continued in Part 2...

[Ener]

The House of Healing — Part 2: Reflection in the Steam

They circled each other.
No referee. No crowd. Just black marble, soft lamplight, and mist rising from the pool beside them.
“If only you would’ve listened to reason,” Heather said, her voice low—not pleading, but tinged with regret.
“Reason?” Marissa snapped, her breasts heaving with breath. “You want to rip the soul from my company.”
“Our company,” Heather shot back. “I built this as much as you did.”

They crashed together.
Pendulous breasts smacked wetly against one another. Slippery oil-coated skin met resistance. Porcelain arms tangled with espresso ones. They wrestled at the edge of the pool, their curves grinding together with purpose.
As Heather’s grip tightened, something surfaced beneath the effort.

Heather stood in front of the mirror, towel cinched under her arms, steam rising from her skin.
Her reflection stared back—composed, poised, rehearsed.
She took a breath.
“It’s not spectacle. It’s access.
Sacred doesn’t have to mean secret.”
Pause. Shift posture. Try again.
“You think I’m selling out. But I’m making sure they show up.”
A scowl. She could already hear Marissa’s contempt.
But she didn’t flinch.

Marissa caught Heather’s wrist mid-swing and slammed her sideways into a shelf of incense and oils.
A chorus of clattering followed—censers toppled, oils shattered across the tiles, smoke curling upward like incense offerings gone awry.
A fresh bruise bloomed across Heather’s shoulder.

With a low growl, Heather shoved off the marble and crashed back into Marissa.
Breasts, bellies, and thighs collided with a heavy smack, their slick torsos sliding. Heather grabbed a fistful of raven-black hair and forced Marissa step-by-step toward the edge of the pool.
She leaned in, breath hot against her rival’s ear.
“We have to let people see us,” she whispered. “We have to let them in.”

And suddenly—Marissa was back at the long oak conference table.

Heather stood across from her, tablet in hand, pitch deck aglow.
Behind her: mockups, slogans, brand kits.
Everything neatly labelled. Sanitized. Marketable.
“Ritual of Reconciliation: Livestream Access Tier,” Heather had said. “We package the intimacy. Sell the struggle. Make healing visible.”
Marissa stared in silence. Then closed the folder.
“This isn’t a brand,” she said flatly. “It’s a bond.
You don’t monetize sacred space.”
Heather smiled like she pitied her.
“It’s not about selling out. It’s about inviting people in.”
“No,” Marissa said, rising. “It’s about keeping something pure in a world that monetizes everything.”
She left the deck untouched on the table—untouched, and unwanted.

The slap of flesh against flesh brought Marissa back to the present—Heather’s thigh driving between hers, forcing her to stumble.
“You never understood what this place is,” Marissa growled, regaining her footing. “It’s not content. It’s consequence.”
The struggle reached a breaking point.
Heather hooked her thigh behind Marissa’s knee and surged forward, driving the espresso-skinned woman off balance.
Their bodies slammed into the water with a splash spraying water in a wide arc around them.
Heat enveloped them—but it wasn’t just the steam or the pool.

Marissa’s mind snapped back, unbidden.

It was after hours.
She hadn’t meant to come back to the spa. Just forgot her keys in the office.
And there they were: Heather and Kendra Walsh—
the branding strategist Marissa had once vetoed,
clinking glasses beside the central pool.
Their laughter echoed through the tiled space.
A screen glowed between them, showing reworked logos, ad mockups, scent rebrands.
Heather leaned in, said something Marissa couldn’t hear—
and Kendra nodded.
She didn’t confront them.
She didn’t need to.
The bile rising in her throat was confirmation enough.
They were building a future she hadn’t consented to.

Both women surged from the water, dripping and wild-eyed.

“You lied,” Marissa spat, water streaming down her espresso-toned skin. “You didn’t just move forward—you cut me out.”
She lunged, slamming chest-first into Heather with a wet smack. Their breasts collided, slick and flattened.
“You gave me no choice!” Heather growled, gripping her rival’s shoulders. “You were dragging us under.”
They locked into a tight, seething clinch—breasts pancaked between them, thighs sliding in the knee-deep water as each tried to break the other’s stance.
Marissa shifted her footing and suddenly stepped aside, letting Heather stumble forward—then grabbed the porcelain-skinned woman by the back of her neck.
“Let me show you what being pushed under really feels like,” she hissed through clenched teeth, and forced Heather’s head toward the water.
With a burst of adrenaline, Heather pushed off the pool floor, whipping her skull backward into Marissa’s face.
Crack.
The impact smashed into Marissa’s nose—stunning her, forcing her grip to break as Heather rose from the water in a spray of droplets and a roar of effort.
The two dropped to their knees, water lapping around their waists.
Gasping. Gleaming. Furious.
They stared into each other’s eyes with twin sneers.
Then, in silence, their fingers laced together—a raw test of strength beginning.
Breasts met again, pressing. Grinding. Slipping.
Their foreheads collided with a meaty thump.
And for a moment—just a moment—their eyes slid shut.

The spa wasn’t finished yet. But they’d already laid claim to the space.
Heather stood barefoot on marble, holding up vials to the light. “Jasmine. Definitely jasmine,” she said.
Marissa opened a bottle of myrrh and inhaled. “This smells like patience,” she whispered.
Heather grinned. “You say that like it’s a virtue.”
They blended them together right there on the floor, giggling like girls, smoothing drops onto each other’s shoulders with reverent fingers.

Marissa snapped back to the present first.
She lunged forward, slamming her forehead into the bridge of Heather’s nose with a sickening crunch.
Heather reeled back, blinking rapidly as tears welled in her eyes, a sharp red swelling blooming at the root of her nose.
She didn’t hesitate—her fist crashed into Marissa’s cheekbone with a sharp crack, drawing a grunt and a spreading charcoal bruise across the espresso-toned skin.
The pool exploded with motion as both women abandoned their grip and began hurling wild, furious punches—arms flailing, bodies slick, the water churning around them.
They struggled to their feet, swaying, snarling—until Heather lunged.
Her shoulder slammed into Marissa’s sternum with enough force to drive them both toward the pool’s edge.
Water splashed violently as they surged forward. Then—
The back of Marissa’s knee hit the marble lip.
Her leg buckled.
She fell backward—but grabbed Heather’s cinnamon-brown hair on the way down, yanking her rival with her in a tangle of limbs and vengeance.

To be continued in Part 3...

[Ener]

The House of Healing — Part 3: Breaking Points

They hit the marble floor hard.
Oil-slick bodies thudded wetly against black tile as Marissa and Heather rolled, snarling and yanking handfuls of hair.
Chest to chest, their heavy breasts slid against each other—slick, flushed, and bruised from earlier blows.

Heather slammed the back of Marissa’s head to the floor with a fleshy crack and scrambled upright. She yanked Marissa up by her hair, fury seething in her voice.
“If you had treated this as a partnership, I wouldn’t have had to fix this alone!”
She hurled the espresso-skinned woman into the wall.
Marissa collided with the marble tiles, her body slapping against the unyielding surface. Heather stalked over, seizing another handful of raven hair.
“You should have seen the engagement,” she hissed, grabbing more hair as she raised her hand to strike. “They love it.”

Marissa struck back.
A knee crashed into Heather’s gut, doubling her over with a choked grunt.
Marissa grabbed Heather’s heavy, dangling breasts and dug her nails in as she shoulder-checked the other woman off her feet.
Heather crashed to the ground.
Marissa straddled her rival and delivered a pair of echoing slaps, snapping Heather’s face side to side.

Marissa had seen it.
And it burned.

A week ago.
On her phone. In bed.
An influencer promo for the House of Healing.
.
The thumbnail was a still of two women grappling, hair-slick with oil—
“Your healing starts when you’re ready to face each other.”
#HouseOfHealing #RitualOfReconciliation

Marissa’s name was tagged—but her words weren’t quoted.
Her voice wasn’t there. Her face had been blurred into background incense.
It was their ritual. Her ritual.
Repackaged. Stripped. Monetized.
She’d stared at the screen until it went black from inactivity.

She’d signed off on this.
Behind Marissa’s back.

Marissa scooted forward on Heather’s supine body.
Her thick thighs framed Heather’s head.
Her ass came down on her rival’s chest, compressing heavy tits beneath her.
“I am the heart of this place,” Marissa snarled, seizing a handful of cinnamon-brown hair.
She yanked Heather’s head upward, dragging her face toward her glistening womanhood.
“I had the vision. I gave it direction. Submit now, and fall back in line.”

Heather’s hands clenched. Her back arched.
With a guttural grunt, she planted her feet and bucked upward—hard.
The oils from the earlier ritual still coated their bodies, and Marissa—despite her dominant perch—slid clean off, tumbling forward onto all fours
Heather winced as her partner’s bare sex briefly smeared across her face, slick and unmistakably aroused.
She twisted, rolled onto her stomach, and scrambled to her feet.

Marissa had barely turned to face her when Heather crashed into her again, their bodies colliding with a loud, fleshy smack.
They clawed at each other’s hair, exchanging blows in a frantic clinch. Slowly—step by step—Heather pushed Marissa down onto one of the heated white marble benches, muscles shaking, sweat and oil dripping from every curve.
Marissa’s vision swam as Heather forced her down on the heated bench.

A branding deal. Multi-platform licensing.
Exclusive streaming rights.
She’d read it. Every word.
And then—without discussion—she’d torn it in half.
“If we can’t keep it sacred,” she had muttered through her teeth, “then it’s not worth saving.”

Marissa writhed, trying to twist free, but Heather grabbed both of her wrists and pinned them against the heated marble.
“You tried to bury me,” Heather panted, straddling her chest, slick thighs squeezing against Marissa’s ribs. “Now you get to feel what that’s like.”
With a guttural grunt, Heather leaned forward, her oil-slicked breasts spilling across Marissa’s face, smothering her rival beneath the full weight of her sweat-soaked body.
Marissa thrashed beneath her—knees kicking, muffled grunts lost in flesh—but Heather bore down harder, her grip unrelenting.
The steam, the heat, the exhaustion—it all worked in Heather’s favor.
Marissa’s struggles grew weaker. Slower.
Until finally… She went limp.
Heather stayed there a moment longer, panting, her breasts rising and falling against her unconscious partner’s slack face.
Then she sat back slowly, slick skin shining in the light, and looked down at what was left of their fight.

To be concluded in Part 4…

[Ener]

The House of Healing — Part 4: Reconciliation
The heat of the stone seeped into Marissa’s back as she stirred.
The bench beneath her was smooth and unforgiving. Her cheek throbbed—a dull, insistent pressure blooming from a deep welt on her right side. But it was her nose that made her wince. Every breath was an ache. The cartilage was swollen, tender—like someone had stuffed her sinuses with pressure and fire.
In the polished black marble across from her, she caught her reflection.
Off-center.
Puffed cheek.
Redness around the nose.
And beneath each eye—the stormy beginnings of a bruise.
But it wasn’t the pain that unsettled her most.
It was the scent
She breathed in again. It curled around her, sharp and citrus-sweet.
Not the earthy depth of myrrh and sandalwood—what she had chosen.
Blood orange. Jasmine. Black pepper.
Heather’s oils.
Marissa touched her shoulder. Her fingers came away slick. Heather had covered her.
Not erased.
But eclipsed.

Across the room, Heather sat in the center of the heated pool, the water lapping softly at her shoulders. Steam ghosted around her collarbones, shrouding her injuries—but the dark bruising on the bridge of her nose cut through the haze like ink through paper. Her left eye was puffier than the right.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t look up.
Her arms rested on the marble, fingers spread, unmoving.
The silence wasn’t peace.
 It was aftermath.
“Don’t get up too fast,” Heather finally said, voice low but clear.
“You’ve been out for a bit.”
Marissa shifted slowly, gritting her teeth. Every part of her body protested. But worse than the ache was the sharp, metallic bitterness pooling behind her tongue. She stared at her oil-slicked hands. The scent clung like a second skin.
“You put your oil on me” she said, flatly.
Heather smirked without turning.
“You’re not the only one with a taste for symbolism.”
A pause. Then softer—
“I didn’t want you waking up smelling like defeat.”
Marissa huffed. Not quite a laugh.
“No. Just smelling like you.”

She looked at Heather again—seated in the heart of the ritual chamber now. Not just in position, but in presence. Still. Composed. Waiting.
“Is this it, then?” Marissa asked, voice low and rough. “You’ve got what you wanted. So now we sell our soul to the highest bidder? Social media. Influencers. All for profits that barely break even.” She shook her head. “This place was meant to be more than that. You know it.”
“Profits are down, Marissa,” Heather said, finally meeting her gaze. “We’re in the red. We have to change to survive. And we can’t keep holding on to rituals that no one sees. It’s not about selling out—it’s about evolving.”
“And I’m just supposed to fall in line?” Marissa’s voice cracked. “I fought for this place. For what it means.”
The silence swelled again.
They’d had this argument a hundred times—but never like this.
Heather exhaled.
“My vision isn’t absolute. I am willing to compromise.”
The accusation in her tone was unmistakable.
“What I’m not willing to do is sit back and watch this place die while we bicker about whose ideal is more sacred.”
Marissa looked away.

The oil still glistened on her skin—not gone, but no longer hers. Her choice had been overwritten. No Rewritten.
They were both marked now. Not just by bruises. Not just by oil.
By each other.
Marissa’s shoulders sagged.
“You’ve won,” she muttered, bitter gravel in her throat. “But I don’t have to like it.”
Heather’s reply came soft, but certain.
“I know you don’t see right now, but I do value your vision. And I value you.”
She stood in the pool, extended a hand.
“I can make this work—with or without you.
But I’d rather it be with.”
She rose from the pool, bruised and naked, and held out a hand.
Marissa stared at it.
At her own hands.

“Let’s see what you’re really going to do with this place,” she said at last. “But don’t think for one second I’m going to let you erase us.”
She stepped forward—and took the hand.
Together, they walked to the bell, and rang it.
The ritual was complete.

[Ener]

Regarding the use of AI in writing this story :
Unlike Road Rage where I gave an AI a rough description of the scene I had in mind and had it work with that, and then rework it until I was satisfied with it,
I wrote full a full draft of the story and had the AI tighten up grammar and phrasing, I also prompted to get idea's for "spots" when I was stuck.

As always, I would love to hear your feedback.
What do you think of the setting ? And do you want to see more "Rituals of Reconciliation" in the House of Healing ?